


wræclāst

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [49]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Apocalypse, Armageddon, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Immortal Merlin, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Resurrection, remix eligible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 09:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9432815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: In 1242, Merlin goes to Jerusalem to await the end of the world.





	

 

 

 

In 1242, Merlin goes to Jerusalem to await the end of the world. The Holy City is full of light, the streets and walls burnished white by the sun, and Merlin sits in the dust in the marketplace and begs for alms; not because he needs any — his magic sustains him regardless of whether he has food and drink — but so that he might better watch the comings and goings of the people around him. This isn’t his first apocalypse, and truth be told he expects more urgency, but here the rhythms of daily life grind on with peculiar determination, as tenacious as the weeds that would sometimes emerge between the flagstones of Camelot’s courtyard. The world marches forwards in defiance of its fate, and Merlin finds comfort in that, if nothing else.

 

In Jerusalem, Merlin learns Hebrew and Aramaic. He is not gifted with languages, save for those tongues which he was born to, but it is either that or say nothing, understand nothing, and he has the time. He imagines Arthur if he had grown up here, dark-haired, and dark-eyed instead of golden blond, with the long brown limbs of the local children. It doesn’t matter what he looks like; Merlin will know him regardless of race or creed or even sex, but it would help to be able to speak to him if — when — he finds him. 

 

Yet Arthur is elusive. The world continues for year after weary year, without an end in sight, and eventually Merlin admits to himself that whatever crisis had drawn him here has come and gone, and they are still standing. Those who speak of the world’s end still do so in terms of imminence and danger, and Merlin pores over many of their holy books in search of an explanation. He learns about the sun and the tides and the movement of planets, but he does not find the answers he seeks.

 

 

 

 

 

In 1346 the plague spreads through Europe, and Merlin with it, tending to the sick and dying. It’s been a hundred years give or take but even he thinks surely now the end of the world has arrived, albeit a few years later than expected. There are piles of bodies in the streets and the shops are empty but the churches are full. Everyone is afraid — surely Arthur will come now. 

 

This time, Merlin devotes himself to medicine, in a way that he had never been given the chance to in Camelot. He learns the strange map of the human body, its currents and humours. He saves a few, but loses many more. Death spreads across city after city, too fast for him to keep up with, and his magic can only do so much. 

 

Still Arthur does not come. The world keeps turning.

 

 

 

 

 

By the 16th century, Merlin begins to grow weary of armageddon. So many people have predicted the end of days and yet the days have not ended. This time he occupies himself with poetry and the gentler arts, although even this knowledge is not without irony. In the night sometimes he hears Arthur’s voice, reciting. It was only something he would admit to when deep in his cups, for Uther had never been the sort of man to take pride in learning for its own sake, and Arthur was still in so many ways his father’s son. Once, however, after Merlin had inadvertently outed him to Leon, Arthur had confessed that he was in fact fond of poetry, and had recited a verse from a book that had been his mother’s, his voice low and steady in the failing light.

 

“ _Oft ic sceolde ana / uhtna gehwylce / mine ceare cwiþan,_ ” he had murmured. “ _Nis nu cwicra nan / þe ic him modsefan / minne durre / sweotule asecgan._ ”1

 

The sentiment was one Merlin had heard him utter before, though always less baldly; perhaps speaking with someone else’s words had made his voice more clear. It returns to him often now, even as he immerses himself in very different texts. He wonders how much of it was his fault, the loneliness Arthur had felt. If he had revealed his powers earlier, would Arthur have accepted him as an equal? Could they have triumphed after all, if only Merlin had trusted him more?

 

 

 

 

 

The world has ended a thousand times since Arthur died, and each time it has been succeeded by something still more terrible. Rebellions lead to revolutions, revolutions to civil wars, civil wars to genocide. In the middle of the twentieth century, Merlin spends the majority of his days in one of the camps in Germany, and wonders if this time he shouldn’t just let the bombs fall. Surely there is no coming back from this.

 

Nevertheless, through it all he keeps on moving. He can’t do much — God, he can’t do nearly enough — but he can do _something_ , even if it’s only minor miracles like multiplying a crust of bread, or alleviating some of the suffering. He has never felt more helpless in his life, until he sees a man who looks like Arthur among the Americans at Vietnam, all gorgeous blond hair and crooked grin, his arm in a sling from a wound which will, in a few short days, turn gangrenous and kill him. At that point, Merlin closes his eyes and thinks, _I’m not sure how much more of this I can take_. 

 

There is a brief moment of peace after the turn of the twenty-first century. The dominoes are lining up, the battle lines have been drawn again, but for the first time Merlin doesn’t feel entirely hopeless. He’s not alone now: there are others who will also fight. The earth beneath his palms thrums with a pulse he does not remember feeling for an age, and he learns its rhythms carefully, content this time to be the curator of growing things. He studies the herbs again, the way he used to when he worked at Gaius' side, but it is distraction, nothing more. Even here, deep in the forest, there is a sense of holding one’s breath; as if any moment might bring deliverance or world-ending cataclysm.

 

 

 

 

 

When the storm clouds finally break, Merlin can feel it in the movement of the trees, a sudden gust of wind that draws him to his feet and turns his face towards the east. The world is beyond the use of kings, now, and beyond the reach of wizards, however ancient. But perhaps there is still enough magic left for one last impossible thing. He gathers some supplies and starts walking, down from the mountains that have been his home and towards the crumbling remnants of civilisation. He has spent so long waiting for Arthur to save them that it never occurred to him that maybe it wouldn't work that way.

 

He has spent so long waiting for the world to end, he has forgotten that there must also be a beginning. 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _wræclāst_ : path of exile.
> 
> 1: from the poem _The Wanderer_. Roughly translated, it means, "Often I had to lament my troubles alone every morning before dawn. There is no one now living to whom I dare speak plainly of my innermost thoughts." Because angst was definitely not a modern invention, lol.


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